


All the Time in the World

by AderaReam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Wild hunt, Time Travel, the author takes liberties because they can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AderaReam/pseuds/AderaReam
Summary: a fic for shudder-dove on tumblr for the Steter Secret Santa.Stiles should know better than to make wishes, who knows what's listening. But, if the listener is a friend, maybe he can have what he wants in the end.





	All the Time in the World

  
  


When everything was over and the Wild Hunt was defeated, Stiles was long past tears. His only consolation, hollow as it was, was that he was legally an adult so that he would not have to worry about being given to some distant relative now that his dad was gone.

He broke off another sob. Maybe he wasn’t quite past tears after all. He had dragged himself home, because no one else was going to do it. All too busy with each other, and wasn’t that a kick in the teeth that he didn’t even care anymore. Scott and Malia could have each other, for however long that would last. He was just… too tired, for everything, all of them. He had thrown himself down on the couch and curled up on himself, willing himself to sleep. He couldn’t.

Stiles levered himself and looked around his house. He saw the pictures that he was erased from, knew that if he went upstairs he would find the wallpaper on the floor and his room dusty and disused.

“Oh God.” He whispered, covering his face with his shaking hands. His dad had died without remembering him. Or if he had remembered, it was only partially, or only for a moment. He hiccuped on another sob, throat scratched raw and eyes spiking in pain. He fell forward off the couch, onto the floor, screaming as much as he could through his destroyed… everything.

If any of the pack had been listening, they would have heard the wails of despair.

Stiles finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

_ “It’s always you, isn’t it.” The voice was one that he hadn’t known that he had missed, and wondered how he could have ever forgotten. _

_ “Oh thank god.” He breathed. Peter blinked in surprise, hands loosening where he had Stiles’ pinned to a pillar. _

_ Stiles explained the situation to him, about the Wild Hunt and how everyone forgot he existed. _

_ “I’ve been missing for three months and no one looked for me?” Peter took it with his usual aplomb. _

_ Together, the two of them devised a plan to get them out of the godforsaken train station. Stiles had managed to contact his friends, but who knew if they would actually be able to help. Peter tried to talk him out of going through the portal with the Hunt. _

_ “You are going to burn up. You won’t make it.” And then the two of them watched as someone else burned trying to escape. _

_ “Peter, we have to get out. We have to warn them.” _

_ “To hell with them.” Peter growled. “What have they ever done for you, really? I will never understand your loyalty to Saint McCall, when we both know he doesn’t deserve it. Listen,” Peter steamrolled over Stiles attempts to defend Scott “We both know I don’t care about any of them, save possibly Malia but even that is more the responsibility of family than anything else, but I refuse I..” He broke off, taking a deep breath and watching the portal that would spell death for almost anyone. “I refuse to watch anyone else burn, I refuse to watch YOU burn. I won’t do it.” _

_ “Peter… I looked for you.” Stiles didn’t know where that came from, but he knew it was true. “I didn’t remember you, but I knew something was missing. I looked I even,” he let out a small sob “I even went to Eichen House I don’t, I didn’t remember, but I looked.” _

_ The two of them watched each other for an eternity, neither willing, or possibly able, to break the silence that had descended upon them, the weight of all they had never said crushing them slowly. Thankfully, the Hunt took care of that. _

_ “...Let’s go.” Peter yanked Stiles towards the portal. He threw himself at one of the riders, knocking him off of his horse and to the ground. Peter clawed at the rider, yelling at Stiles to get on the horse. Stiles fumbled but did as he was told out of confusion, Peter pulled away from the rider, going to the portal to hold it open so that Stiles could get through. The horse moved without his permission, Stiles screaming for Peter. Peter, who was getting him out, Peter who was dying, Peter who was burning. Again. _

 

The next morning, what amounted to about three hours later for Stiles, there was work to do. There was a funeral to arrange, debts to worry about, a house to sell because he couldn’t stay. Not only was living in his house not feasible from a money perspective, but it was too much. He could not live in the place where he had been erased, where he had watched his mother and then his father lose themselves.

Stiles threw himself into research and planning with the fervor of the possessed, and he would know. He didn’t really know much about taxes, about selling a house or arranging a funeral, and he was NOT going to ask Derek or Chris, they did not deserve the reminder, besides he had always managed on his own. He was the smart one, after all.

Stiles paused for a moment, sitting back and running his hands through his hair as he tried to breathe. When the spots cleared, he looked back at his laptop, hands poised on the keys.

He slammed the lid closed and stood, walking over to grab his keys and leave the house. He was sure to lock the door behind him. He got into his jeep and made his way downtown.

It took a while, and some very suspicious looking slow driving, but he found what he was looking for. He parked in the parking lot of a nondescript apartment complex, falling out of his jeep in his haste. He made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor and to the end of the hall where there was the seam that the Hunt couldn’t quite erase. There was no door handle, but Stiles had a knife and he knew that the owner of this particular apartment wouldn’t mind a little bit of damage.

When he finally jammed the door open, Stiles took a deep breath. He inhaled the scent of three months of dust and if he wished hard enough the unique scent of this apartment’s owner. He pushed the door, letting it swing open on silent hinges.

The apartment both was and was not what he was expecting, as he stepped inside he swiveled on his heels, taking in the whole space. There was warm dark wood furniture, and a very comfortable looking blue couch. In the corner was a flat screen tv with a few different game consoles hooked up to it. The wall on the other side of the room was full of bookshelves. The shelves themselves seemed to be full of recent fiction, the earliest book being from around ten years ago.

Stiles shifted over to the kitchen, where the appliances were chrome, the countertops were quartz and there was a tasteful blue tile backsplash behind the sink. There was a table with one lonely chair. Stiles frowned slightly, taking it all in.

He moved on to the hallway, there were three doors. The first one led into the bathroom, which was just as tasteful and expensive looking as one would expect. The second one seemed to be an office. The walls were covered with bookshelves with various volumes bound in different materials. The mahogany desk in the center of the room in front of the window was a work of art. Stiles could see the work that went into the hand carved decorations, and he was more than sure that when he looked more closely, he would find secret compartments, eventually.

Stiles had found what he was looking for, but still, something urged him onward. He left the study and went to the room at the end of the hall. He hesitating before opening the door, but he had no reason not to enter, more than that he had had an open invitation, for all the good that did them in the end.

He gripped the handle, imagining the phantom warmth of another hand on the handle, before he turned the knob and sucked in a sharp breath at the room revealed.

A California King bed dominated the room, wine red quilt covering the bed, still messed up as if it's occupant had simply stepped away for a moment. Stiles stumbled forward to get a better look at the indent that remained in the pillow. He fell to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to touch, only to pull his hand back in uncertainty. He didn’t think he could bear it if this dream shattered, like all of his others had.

Eventually, he brushed gentle fingertips over the pillow, careful not to disturb it too much. Just enough to leave his scent behind. He looked at his hand to see a few pieces of short, brown hair stuck to his fingers. He picked them off carefully, twisting them together before pulling out a handkerchief and folding the hairs carefully away, putting the handkerchief back in the pocket of his red hoodie for safe keeping.

When he had enough strength in his legs, Stiles pushed himself off of the plush carpet and dragged himself back to the study. He started on the left wall, looking through the tomes lining the shelves, making his way slowly around the edges of the room. Some of them he dismissed as useless to him, but he found many magic texts that he pulled down-- as well as some that detailed the magical uses of various plants, animals, and minerals-- and put on the desk. His fingers lingered for a long time on a book of necromancy. He finally pulled it down, adding it to the stack quickly and rationalizing to himself that the last thing they needed was a necromancer running around without any idea of how to deal with it.

They had already been caught off guard one too many times as it was.

When he had all the books he thought that he would need, he sat down at the desk and got to work. He took pictures of every cover and page in every book. By the time he was done photographing the works, his phone was almost dead, as was the day. Stiles looked out the window at the red, red,  _ why is it so red _ , sunset.

When he left the apartment, he shut the door firmly behind him, pulling out some superglue that he had in his jeep just in case, and sealed the door shut. That done, he turned and left the complex, getting in his jeep, and heading home.

The next few days were a haze of planning, studying, and organizing. He roped in Parrish and some of the other deputies into helping him with the funeral arrangements. Parrish, seeing the exponentially growing bags under his eyes and his ever shrinking waist, finally took pity on him and took over the planning.

Stiles dragged out the money that he had been given for the whole dead pool ordeal and used that to buy himself an apartment. Not in the same apartment complex as Peter’s old home, but a nice one all the same. He moved all the stuff he wanted using his jeep and one of the sheriff vans the deputies loaned to him. The rest of it stayed with the house. He closed up shop and called up a realtor to put it on the market.

When he finally got his apartment set up, he flopped into bed and slept for once.

Stiles woke with phrenic determination. He printed out every page that he had photographed and bound them together in stacks of ten pages with staples. He dove in, absorbing everything he could. When he finally managed to conjure a small flame, he nearly set his apartment on fire jumping up to celebrate.

It took a while but he was able to figure out the warding spells. He warded his entire apartment so tightly it put Eichen House to shame. He went back and did the same thing to Peter’s apartment. Now he could use both without worrying about anything being stolen.

He considered warding the entirety of Beacon Hills, but really, he didn’t care enough. He warded the Nemeton, and he set smaller wards on Derek’s loft, just in case. He did go and ward his mom’s grave and the plot he had bought for his father’s grave. No necromancer was raising his parents on his watch. They both deserved a rest.

It took him a while to acknowledge the book of necromancy in his small collection. He was getting scarily proficient at magic. It was amazing what caffeine and insomnia and adderall could do for magical studies. However, curiosity had always been his sin, and he couldn’t not look, in the end.

“Huh, so that’s what you did.” Stiles mumbled to himself as he flipped through the pages, landing on a resurrection ritual that was very familiar. It turned out that Peter had managed to resurrect himself without killing anyone specifically because he had bitten Lydia. If he hadn’t the ritual would have taken both Scott and Derek’s life as a price. Scott as the resurrector, Derek as the blood needed to make it work.

Amazing, the things you find out after a person’s death.

Stiles could feel the weight of the handkerchief that remained in his hoodie pocket. He knew it was stupid, and liable to cause trouble, but other than his apartment and the handkerchief in his pocket, there was nothing of Peter left. Maybe they were better off for it, he knew that Scott in particular wasn’t going to be losing any sleep over Peter, if he even remembered that he existed, but it didn’t feel like a good thing.

 

The supernatural happenings of Beacon Hills held off long enough for his father’s funeral. Stiles declined to speak, he just stood in silence while Parrish and Melissa,  and even Finstock, got up to give a eulogy.

“I am so sorry, dude.” Scott said after the service was over. His big sympathetic puppy face was out in full force. Stiles couldn’t muster up a smile for him.

“It is what it is.” He finally settled on. Scott made sympathetic noises, patting him on the shoulder, before he was distracted by an actually weeping Malia. Stiles watched as Scott held her close and cooed over her as she lost it over HIS father’s casket. Stiles tried not to feel too angry, Malia had had a connection to his dad, he didn’t begrudge her that, and he was perversely glad that she was able to display such human emotion.

“Why didn’t you ask for help planning? I would’ve.” Lydia asked. Stiles turned to her and scowled.

“Why didn’t you offer?” He demanded. Lydia looked momentarily chastened. She drew herself up.

“All of us had things to deal with, Stiles.”

“But not all of us became orphans.” He snapped back. Lydia tripped back from the force of it. He didn’t care, he was more than done. With this day, with people’s simpering sympathy, with their offers to help that come far too late. Turning on his heel, Stiles made his way to his jeep and climbed in, slamming the door behind him. Then opening the door and slamming it again. And again. And again. He jammed his key in the ignition, roaring out of the parking lot.

He didn’t return to his apartment for a long time. He drove around Beacon Hills, trying not to feel lost in the place that had been home for his entire life. He found himself pulling up to where the Hale house used to be. There was nothing left, not even a pile of rotting wood. Stiles rested his head on his steering wheel. He wondered idly if he hadn’t dragged Scott out in the Preserve that night, how much would be different. If he had been the werewolf, or if Peter hadn’t found anyone. Would his dad still be alive? Or would he have died earlier from not knowing? If he could go back, warn the Hales…

He hit his steering wheel, swearing.

The bad thing about a thorough magical education via hyperfocus is learning how things actually work. Even if he did go back, he would just create a timeline split, it wouldn’t actually change anything here. Stiles threw himself back in his seat, covering his eyes with an arm. He wanted his dad back, he wanted his mom, he wanted….

Stiles drove back to his apartment, determinedly not looking at the magic books scattered around his living room and kitchen. He took a shower and dropped himself into bed, wanting desperately to go back.

 

Stiles could feel his soul being physically dragged to hell when reports of mutilated animal corpses began popping up on the police scanner, and later the local news. There was no way to pin these markings on mountain lions, they were very clearly runes and the amount of bodies stacking up suggested that someone was on a deadline.

Stiles ran into the pack in the Preserve that night.

“Stiles.” Scott said, “You don’t need to be out here, it’s dangerous and..”

“And magic, and I am the only one here who knows magic.” Stiles bit out. He looked around, noting the lack of police. “Parrish is keeping the deputies occupied then?”

“...Yeah.” Stiles nodded, heading off in the direction of the Nemeton, hitching his bag up on his shoulder.

“Well, let's find us a witch.” He plunged ahead into the treeline, not waiting for the pack. Scott spent the rest of the trek trying to talk Stiles into going home. After the first ten minutes, Stiles was tempted to pull out his earbuds and start blasting rock music. He sighed and kept the earbuds put away, not wanting to be anything less than alert when they came across the witch.

“What do you know about this witch.” Lydia finally cut into Scott’s futile efforts. Stiles glanced at her.

“I think she’s trying to get to the Nemeton. The runes she’s been carving into the deer carcasses suggest a ritual to gain power. She would need a lot of it to get past the wards I put up around the tree stump of destiny.” Stiles answered wryly, “Thankfully, this seems to be a witch and not a darach, as no humans have bit it yet.”  _ That we know of, _ he added mentally. He heard Scott release a sigh.

“So we can just talk to them, convince them to leave. That’s good.” Stiles scowled at the underbrush and walked faster.

“Scott, she wants the Nemeton for a specific purpose, she isn’t just going to leave.”

“How do you know the witch is a she?” Malia asked.

“It’s just a feeling I get, her magic feels like it’s coming from a woman. I can’t quite explain it.” 

“How do you suddenly know so much about magic, anyway?” Lydia demanded. Stomping her way closer.

“Since I had some time on my hands.” Stiles gave her a nasty grin.  _ And since I finally realized that I would have to take care of myself. _ He mentally sneered.

When they finally got to the clearing that held the Nemeton, Stiles walked right up to the stump. He heard a round of satisfying thumps behind him, and turned to see the pack stuck at the edge of the clearing. He smirked at them. 

“I told you, I have this place warded.” He ignored their demands to be let in, turning to unzip his bag and lay out the items he had procured for his seeking ritual.

Stiles laid out a map on the Nemeton, holding the four corners down with paperweights that he had swiped over the years. He was particularly proud of Harris’ pretentious Shakespeare bust. He mixed and powdered the herbs and the pink wolfsbane, setting the entire mixture alight and spreading it over the map. The flaming dust hovered an inch over the map, seeming to take a moment to think, before coalescing into a bright pink beacon that floated over the map of the Preserve and moved slowly along with the witch. Stiles grinned in satisfaction.

The pink flame moved steadily closer and closer to the Nemeton. Stiles flicked his gaze between the map and the opposite edge of the clearing where the witch was approaching. It took a few minutes, but he finally saw her through the trees. She glowed faintly to his eyes, awash with her new powers, as she strode confidently up to his barrier. The witch stilled for barely a second upon seeing him, before quickening her pace. 

The witch laid her hands on his barrier just as Stiles cleared off the Nemeton and laid his hands upon it. The witch shrieked in rage at seeing him touch the stump and began chanting furiously. Stiles pushed his magic into the stump, fueling his wards and allowing a bit of himself to merge with the tree. The witch was pushing and pushing at the wards, chanting louder and louder, and Stiles was still largely untrained. He shoved all of his magic at the wards, managing to push the witch back momentarily, but she came back.

She screeched a spell, and Stiles realized his mistake. He had led the pack here. The spell hit the wards at the same time as Scott’s claws. The barrier shattered and all of that excess magic sped away from the witch and flowed over Stiles and past him.

“Oh, fuck.” Everything went black.

 

Stiles woke up to the sound of various people groaning. He wished they would shut the fuck up and let him die in peace because he was fairly certain that his brain was trying to beat it’s way out of his skull with his own wolfsbane infused bat. He hoped it would hurry up and succeed.

Stiles blinked his eyes open and watched the sun streaming through the canopy of the Preserve through his tears…

“What?!” He threw himself upright and immediately flopped over in pain. On his side, he could now see a very large, very alive Nemeton. He traced the line of the trunk through his watering eyes up to the boughs that were covered in thick leaves that nearly pulsated with magic. Stiles dragged himself across the grass to get a hand on the tree. It’s magic reached out to meet him. He could feel the trees confusion  _ Friend but not yet, kin but no no no not here, why not here? Here but not yet.  _ He let go of the tree.

“I should know better than to wish. I should…” Stiles whispered to himself. He turned on his back, closing his eyes against the light. He wanted to shake his head in denial, but that was hard to do because of the giant sentient tree that was reaching out for him, and the slowly abating pain in his head.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Malia called over to him. He groaned, flopping an arm through the air in her general direction.

He heard the rest of the pack check up on each other, picking themselves up off of the ground and wondered if he was desperate enough to ask for someone to drain the pain in his head.

The Nemeton latched onto that thought and pulled his pain out through his magic which, wow, that was a strange feeling.

“Thanks.” He sat up and patted the tree on its bark. The tree brushed some of its leaves against his cheek. He caught a murmur of  _ Friend but not yet. Friend. _ Before the Nemeton pulled away. He smiled at the tree, using it to pull himself all the way to his feet.

A growl in the treeline made him freeze. His eyes shot up to the big black wolf that was staring at him.

“Derek?” He asked without much hope. The wolf blinked in shock before growling louder, baring its fangs and flashing red eyes at him. Stiles crowded closer to the Nemeton in response. He heard other growls from behind him, he turned his head slightly, keeping the strange alpha in sight trying to figure out why it was so familiar.

“I am Scott McCall, Alpha of Beacon Hills, who are you?” Scott flashed his eyes at the other Alpha stepping forward.

The wolf roared at them before shifting.

“Talia.” Stiles breathed out, falling fully against the Nemeton to keep himself upright. Stiles really needed to be more careful about wishing. There was no one else the woman could be. She could full shift, and she looked exactly like Derek. She was tall and held herself with dignity despite being naked. She stared down Scott, who was visibly struggling to hold her gaze.

Scott finally looked away. Talia Hale smirked at him, before turning back to where Stiles was. Stiles held her eyes. He pushed himself off of the Nemeton and stepped forward. He stopped just out of arm's length, aware that it would not matter if Talia decided to kill him.

“Alpha Hale.” He finally said, bowing his head slightly, but maintaining eye contact. He heard Lydia gasp from behind him. He did not acknowledge her. “I am sorry to intrude upon your territory, but I ran afoul of a witch and the situation was largely out of my control.”

Talia squinted at him, listening for a lie.

“A witch? There has been no sign of a witch as of late.”

“It's because we are from the future.” Scott butted in. Stiles and Talia both looked at him in askance. “Look, I told you I was the Alpha of Beacon Hills, and you could hear that it wasn’t a lie, right? But you are also the Alpha of Beacon Hills, so how else could that happen?”

“You could be deluded into thinking you were the alpha, then it would appear that you were telling the truth.” Talia sniffed, “or you could be a good liar.”

Stiles snorted. Talia gave him a curious look.

“Sorry, it's just, Scott has never been a convincing liar. Ever.” Stiles was amused at the notion. Sure, Scott omitted information, he got away with things simply by not saying anything, but straight up lying? No. Stiles didn’t have magical werewolf hearing, and even he knew when Scott was trying to sell him some line of shit.

“We’ll see.” Talia replied. “All of you will come with me, and my Emissary will determine the truth of the matter.” She turned and shifted back into wolf form fluidly, fully expecting the pack and Stiles to follow. Stiles gave her furry form a skeptical look, but followed along behind her. Scott followed easily, as did Liam. Lydia and Malia shared a look before they brought up the rear.

Stiles was not prepared for the gut punch that was seeing the Hale house whole and alive. He had never known the Hales beyond their reputation before Scott was bitten, but the house, two floors, plenty of windows, the front porch with a swing, and the chatter he could hear faintly coming from inside the house made his soul hurt. He froze in his tracks when the front door opened and a little three year old Cora stumbled out of the house and rushed up to Talia, grabbing onto her mother’s fur and babbling away as only a toddler could.

“Cora, come back!” A man cried, rushing out of the house after her. He picked up the little girl and held her close as she tried to squirm away from him, giggling and shrieking as she reached out to her mother.

Talia sniffed at her daughter's small hands before making her way inside. The man followed after her, carrying Cora and eyeing Stiles and the other’s suspiciously. Talia reappeared, this time fully dressed, when they all made it to the porch.

“All of you will remain out here until my Emissary arrives. Peter, watch them.” She took baby Cora from the man, Peter’s, hands and went back inside, supposedly to call Deaton.

The pack stared at Peter, a young Peter and god he looked almost their age what the hell? Peter eyed them back just as warily, but he seemed to take a special interest in Lydia.

“If you touch me I will skin you.” She hissed when his eyes lingered on hers a bit too long. Peter smirked and held up his hands.

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty. I’m simply curious. I don’t quite know what you are.” He cocked his head to the side, gaze intent.

“She’s a-- ow!” Lydia stomped on Scott’s foot. She glared at him when he tried to ask what he did and his jaw snapped shut.

“You know, I think I like you.” Peter’s amusement cut through the group. He leaned against the front door.

“I want you at least four feet away from me at all times.” Lydia hissed. Peter seemed genuinely taken aback by the venom in her tone. His gaze searched everyone, looking for some sort of clue, and seemed to come away dissatisfied.

“Can I at least know what I have apparently done to warrant such a request?” He finally asked.

“Nothing.” Stiles finally broke in, making himself comfortable on the porch swing. “Absolutely nothing, Lydia is just particular about the company she keeps.” He slid a look at Peter, whose eyes were now riveted on him. “Take it from someone who knows, Lydia has always had a sense of who wants something from her, and who is useful enough to put up with.”

Stiles used his foot to push the swing into motion. He leaned back, waiting for Talia to come back with Deaton. He could feel the other’s tension, whether from the situation or from Peter, he wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care. His mind was spinning with plans and possibilities, trying to figure out how to get them all home with minimal damage. And there was a part of him, a small part, really small, like not even worth mentioning, that itched for Peter.

 

Peter maintained his cool appearance by the skin of his teeth. How was his charm failing him? He was Peter Goddamn Hale, master manipulator, youngest Left hand on the west coast, and stunningly good looking and rich to boot. And yet, this group of teenagers were more than a bit wary of him. He could feel the hostility rolling off of the strange-death-not-quite smelling strawberry blonde (Lydia?) The one with the crooked jaw looked and smelled like he did not know whether to be angry or scared. The other girl, the one that smelled like a were- something (fox? Coyote? raccoon?) was staring at him intently, but not in any way that he liked to be stared at. The only other wolf appeared to be as confused by the tension as he was.

The only noticeable difference was the human on the swing. He seemed utterly relaxed, almost bored. He was lazily pushing himself on the swing, staring off into space, apparently deep in thought. Peter tried not to dwell too much on the man’s scent or how much he wanted those sunlight and whiskey eyes on him, he had a job to do and he couldn’t keep an eye on these strangers if he was too focused on figuring out every minute piece of the human’s scent.

It was intoxicating. The smell of a waterfall during a storm mixed with cinnamon that he got on his first whiff was still caught in his nose, making him fight not to salivate. Not to mention the careless ease with which he held himself. Peter’s fangs itched to drop, itched to mark up all of that pale skin and lay claim to the human who is braver than wolves. He also wanted to pick his brain, because he was very aware that the man was telling the truth when he spoke, and he was also aware that it was not even close the the whole truth.

He waited with as much ill grace as the strangers for Talia to show up with their resident druid. When the pair came through the treeline, he could not quite contain his scowl. There was something off about the good doctor, he could feel it in his claws, but of course Talia would not listen. Deaton was Emissary after all, and Peter was Talia’s kid brother first and her Left Hand second.

Peter was, however, interested in the reactions that seeing the Druid created in the stranger’s scents. Lydia’s animosity calmed some, crooked-jaw relaxed entirely. The other wolf decided to take his cue from crooked-jaw and relaxed as well. The were-something tensed, stinking of apprehension. The human appeared to not change at all, but Peter was watching carefully, and he saw the sharp calculation in those eyes. Peter was not sure whether he was vindicated that this human seemed to be wary of the druid, or put out that the human paid more attention to the doctor.

Deaton scanned the strangers on the porch. He zeroed in on crooked-jaw. Crooked-jaw who leapt all of the stairs to greet him with a chipper “Hi Doc!” Peter watched in some amusement as the human on the swing clenched his jaw and hid his face in his hands. The man rubbed his face before dragging his fingers through his hair, making it look like he just rolled out of bed after a rather wild night. Peter felt a rush of heat at the thought of seeing that look some other time before firmly telling himself to focus.

“Hello.” Doctor Deaton said, watching the stranger. Peter saw him grip his bag tighter, the only outward indication of distress, before he smoothed himself back into his all knowing persona. “As you seem to know me, might I have your names?”

“Oh, sure. I’m Scott McCall. That’s Lydia Martin.” Crooked-jaw (Scott? really?) pointed at the strawberry blonde. He shifted slightly to indicate the other girl. “Malia Tate.” The girl seemed to relax slightly. “Liam Dunbar.” The other wolf startled and gave a small wave. “And Stiles.” The human, Stiles, didn’t react. He kept his eyes firmly on Deaton. The vet stared back.

“No surname?” he eventually asked.

“Oh, right!” The puppy said. “That is Stiles Stilinski.” The druid raised an eyebrow. Peter filed the name away, certain that he had heard it before, well the surname anyway. He hoped for the human’s sake that Stiles was a nickname and not his given name. What kind of parent would saddle their child with a name like Stiles Stilinski?

“Right, well, if you would all follow me, then we can get to the truth of the matter of your presence here.” Deaton led them all inside and to the door leading to the basement. He paused a moment to paint some runes on the doorframe before leading the group inside. Peter watched Stiles bring up the end of the line of strangers, hesitating in the doorway and looking over the runes placed there by the Druid. He saw the other man frown at the runes before passing a hand over them.

Peter’s breath stopped as he saw the runes glow and change shape, wiggling into a new configuration. When he was done, the other man finally seemed to register Peter’s presence and turned to catch his eye. Peter was ready for threats, which is why he was caught off guard by the wink Stiles sent him as well as the small finger wave as he sauntered down the basement stairs.

It took Peter a few moments to come back to himself. He took careful note of the shape and configuration of the new runes before entering the basement. He would have to look them up later. And, so long as nothing happened, he supposed Talia didn’t need to know about the little trick Stiles had pulled.

Peter reached the bottom of the stairs to see all of the strangers sitting inside a mountain ash circle and the Druid placing candles at the cardinal points. He watched from the side as the druid lit the candles, placing a sprig of pink wolfsbane in each flame, before chanting out a spell that seemed to trap the wolfsbane inside of the circle and increase its potency.

“This wolfsbane is meant to make the person who breathes it in speak only the truth, it will not harm you so long as you do not try to lie.” Deaton explained.

“Okay.” Crooked-jaw nodded affably. Stiles snorted and sat cross legged on the floor, looking around the basement with interest.

“What are your names?” Deaton asked first.

“Scott McCall-- Malia Tate-- Lydia Martin--Liam Dunbar--Stilinski.” The all spoke at once. Peter gave Stiles a sour look at not giving his first name. Stiles just smirked at him.

“What is your pack status?”

“Alpha, beta, beta, beta, adjacent.” Now that was interesting, the human was obviously aware of pack positioning, and seemed resigned to his pack adjacency. Why anyone wouldn’t want Stiles in their pack was beyond Peter, though he supposed there was no accounting for taste, especially if the puppy was actually the Alpha. Peter snorted as he eyed crooked-jaw, unconvinced of his worthiness.

“What, but Stiles you are pa-ack!” He choked off, grabbing his throat as the wolfsbane activated. Stiles looked at the alpha with a mixture of pity and derision.

“Scotty, I haven’t been pack since Derek left, probably before that if I’m being honest. You really need to check your pack bonds, because as far as I can see, they are thin and frayed, one wrong move from snapping.” Stiles expounded. Lydia stared at Stiles. Malia shifted uncomfortably. Liam seemed confused, although that could just be the beta’s permanent state.

“Where are you from?” Deaton asked, trying to get back on track.

“Beacon Hills.” All of the strangers answered in unison. God that was creepy. Peter caught Stiles’ eyes and saw a flash of amusement at his discomfort. He scowled.

“... When are you from?”

“2012.” They all said.

“... so you are from the future?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you come back?” The resulting mess of storytelling was too jumbled to comprehend even to Peter’s ears, and he was listening for Stiles’ story specifically. When they all finally stopped talking, Talia cleared her throat.

“I will take it from here Deaton, if I may.” Deaton did not respond but ceded to Talia, who stepped towards the circle and stared down the ones inside. They all looked away. All except for Stiles. Peter wanted him more by the moment, even if he was a little shit, probably because he was a little shit.

“Do you wish harm on me or my pack?” She asked.

“No.” Stiles and Liam replied.

“Not all of them.” Admitted the rest. Scott seemed startled by the admission, but Malia and Lydia seemed perfectly at ease with their confession, throwing Peter looks. Looks that Talia, unfortunately, caught.

“I will have members of my pack watching you in the den. I will bring all of you down here one at a time to question you individually. I will keep Peter with me during that time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Collectively. Talia nodded to Deaton who bent down to break the mountain ash circle. 

“Wait!” Stiles called out, stunning them all with his vehemence. Deaton paused. “You need to clear the wolfsbane before you break the circle unless you want the entire house flooded.”

“It’s fine, this wolfsbane isn’t dangerous.” Talia said, superior. Stiles looked at her like she was an idiot.

“This wolfsbane isn’t dangerous to grown werewolves, but to a werewolf who isn’t an adult, isn’t in control of their shift, if this wolfsbane gets into their system it might completely negate their ability to lie. For the rest of their life.” Talia paled.

“Deaton, clear the smoke.” She commanded. Deaton twitched slightly. He stood up.

“Talia, it is incredibly unlikely that any of your children will come into contact with the smoke-” He was cut off by Stiles lunging forward and pulling the Druid into the circle.

“Why do you not want to clear the smoke?” He demanded.

“Because I don’t trust them.” His eyes widened. Stiles grin was shark like.

“Can you see the future?”

“Yes.”

“Did you let the Nemeton get cut down?”

“Not yet.” Deaton was struggling in Stiles grip, but the other man had him in a vice, not letting his chance go. Stiles’ eyes began to glow as he pushed some of his magic to keep Deaton where he was. Deaton was stunned into stillness, for the first time looking afraid.

“Kate?”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Peter wouldn’t listen, and he was pulling Talia away, little by little.” Stiles dropped the druid, who collapsed to the floor in a heap.

“So that’s it, you destroyed everything because you were afraid for your position.” Peter watched as the young man began to glow darkly with the force of his rage, acrid scent of burning almonds and something like despair stinging his nose. “All the death, all of the destruction, everything we lost because you wanted to remain at the right hand of an alpha?” His voice was quiet, so terribly soft. His glow dimmed; he cocked his head to the side. “No, that isn’t quite right, is it?” Stiles bent over the druid. “You wanted to be the authority.”He hissed. “You wanted to have all of us scrambling around, coming to you for you to save the day. You wanted power, prestige, but you aren’t strong enough to take it for yourself. You can’t communicate with the Nemeton, you can’t do most magics. Do you even have enough power to become a Darach? Or is even that denied you?” 

Peter watched as Stiles grew louder and glowed brighter with every connection he made.

“How much of it was you, in the end?” Deaton went limp.

“I don’t know.” His voice broke on a sob. Stiles turned away from the druid, glow dimming to nothing. The rest of the people in the circle were standing rather awkwardly, none of them looking at the Druid who was now weeping quietly on the floor.

Peter went to take a step forward, before he was tripped. He had dug his claws into the wall without realizing it. They were probably the only thing that had kept him from leaping at Stiles in sheer need. He had a type, and it was pretty and powerful he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He cleared his throat before he spoke.

“Stiles, would you clear the smoke?” Peter watched the other man simply wave his arm and the smoke funneled out of the tunnel and into the preserve. Another wave and the candles were out and the circle broken. Peter tried to hide his reaction to those eyes glowing beta gold, more perfect than he had thought possible.

“But Stiles,” Peter was ready to tear the crooked jawed puppy-alpha’s throat out, the way he whined his mate- no, Stiles’ name. “If Deaton was just trying to get Talia away from Peter’s influence then he wasn’t--” Stiles snapped around to face the puppy-alpha, glow back in full force and eyes nearing white as he advanced on him. Peter was gratified and aroused to see the boy stumble back and scramble across the floor.

“He let them all die!” Stiles screamed. “He knew about everything, everything! He knew about you, about me, about Kate and Gerard. He allowed this house to be burned to the ground with all but three packmates inside it and you think he wasn’t the bad guy!?!” What? Everyone, his whole pack, dead? Peter’s claws and fangs dropped. No, he wouldn’t let that happen, and who were Kate and Gerard?

“But it’s Peter!” The puppy alpha had finally rallied. “Why are you defending him? You hate him more than all of us! You always have.” That should not have been nearly as much of a gut punch as it was. The idea that this beautiful, glowing creature would hate him…

“Have you ever considered, even once, that Peter wouldn’t have done what he did, any of it, if it weren’t for his circumstances? He wouldn’t have any reason to have done any of it if Kate and the fire hadn’t happened.”

“Oh come on, Stiles” the boy scoffed. “He probably would have killed Talia to become Alpha, we all know that he’s a power hungry murderer.”

“That is quite enough.” Talia snarled the command. Stiles remained where he was, rage visibly burning, but he didn’t say anything more. The puppy alpha flashed his eyes at Talia but subsided pitifully quickly. “We will follow the original plan, I will question all of you one at a time, and if you are not truthful, we will deal with you. In fact,” Talia smiled sweetly. “I’ll let Peter take care of you.”

The three who seemed to hate him physically recoiled. Perpetually confused beta lived up to his new moniker. Stiles cocked his head to the side, glow dimming once more before extinguishing entirely.

“You may want someone else in charge of handling me.” He said. Talia looked at him sharply.

“I believe we will be saving you for last, Mr. Stilinski.” Stiles gave her an agreeable nod and made his way to the stairs where Talia’s husband, David, was waiting at the top with Talia and Peter’s other siblings, Amelia and Tyler. Peter scowled at Amelia when he caught her amused look. Could he be blamed that the (mage? Sorcerer? witch?) man had a very nice ass? 

One after another, the beta’s left the basement, leaving only their disgruntled puppy- alpha in the basement. The door shut behind Lydia and Peter and Talia turned their full attention to the werewolf in front of them.

“Why are you here?” Talia began.

“You brought me here.” Peter sneered at the answer. Talia’s face didn’t change, though she released a subvocal rumble of displeasure.

“Your…. Mr. Stilinski said something about a witch?”

“Yeah.” The boy shrugged. Talia waited. The boy glared at his shoes. Peter leaned back against the wall. The boy glared harder, fidgeting in place. Finally, he let out a put upon sigh. “A witch had killed a bunch of animals in the Preserve and we were going to tell her to stop. She was trying to get to the Nemeton, which Stiles apparently has warded to only let him near it. I tried to get to him, the witch tried to break his wards. Her magic broke the wards and flowed over all of us and we woke up here.”

Talia absorbed all of this, parsing through it for any hint of untruth. Peter was inclined to believe that is was mostly the truth, but there was probably some fault that fell on Scott that was not being explained.

“Are you going to try to hurt me, my pack, or anyone in Beacon Hills?”

“No, I would never, unlike some people.” He glared at Peter, he was unimpressed. This was a petty hatred directed his way, he was more than capable of bearing it.

“How do you plan on returning to your time?” The puppy alpha turned back to Talia, looking confused.

“Uh, probably going to wait for Stiles to do his thing. He’s the researcher.”

“Even though he isn’t pack?” Peter asked, eyes sharp, voice silken.

“He is.” A tick, a lie. “He just, he’s human so he doesn’t feel it like we do.” Peter prowled forward.

“You can say that all you like, you may even believe it. But everyone else, including Stiles, knows that it's a lie.” Peter looked the boy up and down, before snorting. “I don’t know what he sees, or saw,” he gave the puppy another derisive look “in you, but you might want to consider  _ asking _ him to save your skin instead of expecting him to do it.”

Talia sent Scott upstairs and called for the first beta. The perpetually confused werewolf came down the stairs and stood in front of Peter and Talia. Talia asked him how they came to be in the past, and he told nearly the same story as Scott, with only the added detail that Scott’s claws hit the wards at the exact same moment as the witches spell. Talia asked a few more questions that the beta dutifully answered.

“Do you know why your packmates hate Peter?” Talia finally asked.

“That was before my time. I only met Peter a few times, and we didn’t really interact much.” The boy said. “No one really interacted much with Peter, except for Derek and Stiles.”

“Derek?” Talia keyed in on the mention of her son.

“Yeah, “ the boy nodded. “Derek Hale, who I guess is your son? He was a part of the pack for a while, but he left to go chase down a criminal or something. I don’t remember. Stiles could probably tell you, I’m pretty sure that he is the only one who keeps in touch with Derek anymore.”

“But he’s alive?” Talia pressed, slightly desperate.

“Yes, he is. Stiles would probably be even worse off than he is now if Derek wasn’t.” Now that was interesting. Peter perked up.

“What do you mean?” He demanded. Liam turned to him.

“Stiles has lost a lot recently, I don’t know if you noticed. The bags under his eyes, he lost a lot of weight too. I haven’t really seen him since his dad’s funeral, and before then he was only around every now and again.” The boy ducked his head. “I haven’t been a good friend to him, considering everything he’s done for me, for all of us really.”

“Thank you, Liam. Would you send Malia down next.” The boy nodded and made his escape up the stairs.

Malia answered their questions perfunctorily, expression and body language completely closed off and more than a bit suspicious. Peter could admire her obstinacy, if it wasn’t so irritating in this instance.

Lydia flounced down the stairs and answered all of their questions respectfully, all the while glaring daggers at Peter.

Finally, Stiles made his way down the basement stairs. Peter applied himself to truly seeing the man this time, and he was not happy with what he observed. Stiles was far too pale and thin. He did have bags under his eyes, just as Liam said. As Stiles passed him, Peter took care to catalogue his scent. There was caffeine, the chalk smell of some sort of drug (must be prescription, he doesn’t have the other signs of an addict,) exhaustion, and the salty, grungy tang of people who have fallen into a recent pit of depression. All in all, no good signs.

“Get a good whiff, wolfman?” Came the sardonic question. Peter was embarrassed to be called out so blatantly.

“Not like it’s hard, have you showered in the past week?” He shot back, meeting Stiles’ slightly amused expression.

“Can’t remember, I’ve had things to do.”

“Alright, shall we start?” Talia cut in. Stiles and Peter both nodded, subsiding. Peter was impressed, Stiles smelled like he was running on fumes, but he was plenty quick.

“How did you get here?” Stiles gave them the same story that Lydia, Malia, and Liam had.

“How do you plan to get back to your own time?”

“I was hoping that you would grant me access to your library so that I could research a way to get us all home.”

“All?” Talia raised an eyebrow.

“All.” Stiles raised a brow back. “Trust me, you don’t want another pack, especially this one, running around Beacon Hills. Besides, all of them have families who would miss them.”

“But you don’t.” It wasn’t a question. Stiles answered anyway.

“I buried my mother when I was ten. I buried my father a week ago.” 

“I am sorry for your loss.” Stiles snorted.

“You can prove it by kicking Deaton to the curb.” Talia’s face hardened.

“Believe me, I will.” She said through gritted fangs. Stiles nodded in approval.

“Why does the pack hate me?” The question came out before Peter could stop it. Stiles looked so tired all of a sudden. He dropped down so that he was sitting on the floor and covered his face in his hands, breathing deeply. He dragged his hands back through his hair and seemed to come to an agreement with himself.

“You both might want to sit down, this is probably going to take a bit of explaining.” Talia sat cross legged on the floor, opposite Stiles. Peter took up position on the second step of the basement stairs. Stiles quirked a smile when he saw where Peter was sitting.

“The easiest is Liam, because he doesn’t hate you. He never really knew you enough to form an opinion of you. He met you probably once, before you were gone.” Stiles started.

“The rest are a bit more… involved, and I need to start at Scott for this to make any sense. Well, no, I need to start with Kate and the Fire.” Stiles rubbed his face again, taking a deep breath. “Kate Argent is a codeless hunter. She targets prominent werewolf families with young men, boys really, who she can dupe into revealing their family secrets so that she can trap them in their homes and set the entire place on fire. She did this to Derek.” Talia growled. “The pack was together for a family reunion, Derek, Laura, and Cora were the only ones not in the house at the time.” Stiles flicked a look at Peter. “Peter was the only one who survived the fire that was inside the house, but he was badly burned and was in a coma for six years afterwards. Laura took Derek and went to New York, I don’t really know what happened with Cora. She disappeared and resurfaced years later in the hands of a deranged group of alphas.”

“They left me, didn’t they.” Peter cut in, quiet. Stiles nodded.

“They did. Six years, no visits, no calls, nothing. You healed, slowly, but you knew someone had murdered your family, had tried to murder you, and had gotten away with it. And that your pack left you. You went insane. You lured Laura back to Beacon Hills and killed her, taking the Alpha power from her. You were healing faster after that, but you were still feral. Well, mostly feral, you were cognizant enough to realize that you needed pack.” Stiles huffs, strangely self deprecating.

“This is where Scott and I enter the story. My dad was the sheriff at the time and I have always been far too nosy for my own good, I heard there was a dead body in the Preserve and decided to go looking for it, dragging Scott with me. We got caught, I covered for him and got sent home by my dad, Peter caught Scott and bit him. And he has never forgiven you for that.”

“Wait, he is angry at me because I bit him when I was insane?” Peter asked, incredulous.

“That is the base where the monolith of blame for the goings on of Beacon Hills sits, at least in Scott’s mind. Nevermind that the bite got rid of his asthma, or gave him cool powers, or that he eventually became a ‘true alpha’” Stiles snorted. “He never wanted to be a werewolf, and he never got over his resentment of you for turning him. He can forgive people for trying to kill him, but not this.”

“Lydia’s hatred,” Stiles jumped topics, “Is the most valid. At least, I think it is. You bit her too, but she didn’t turn. She already had creature heritage, so it just brought that out. When you died, killed by Derek because you were rampaging through Beacon Hills and were going to slaughter everyone, you had planted a bit of yourself inside her mind using the bite. You messed with her mind to such a degree that she had a hard time telling what was real, using her to raise yourself from the dead. When you came back, your sort of possession of Lydia ended, but she never forgot. The scars were prominent.” Peter thought about that.

“...You said that I didn’t do anything to her. You weren’t lying.” Stiles nodded.

“Because you, the you of right now, hasn’t done anything to her. You don’t know her, she doesn’t know you, not now. But it’s hard to separate the Peter we knew to the one you are or might become.”

“What about Malia?” Peter asked.

“Malia…” Stiles hesitated, eyeing Talia with some trepidation. “Malia is your daughter.”

Peter laughed. His laughter trailed off when no one else joined in. He looked between a sympathetic, resigned Stiles, and a wide eyed Talia.

“What?” He demanded. “How can I… she’s got to be at least seventeen! How old am I when you knew me?”

“... When we met, you were thirty five.” Peter did the math.

“No way. There’s no way that I would have a daughter and not, not remember…” Stiles looked over at Talia.

“You never knew her. Talia erased your memory of her and stuck her with a foster family. You only found out when Lydia looked at Talia’s memories through her claws.”

Peter’s entire world was tilting dangerously. He leaned back against the steps as the entire room shifted around him. He had a child, a daughter, someone who he didn’t remember and  _ was not with her family. _

“Talia, how could you?” Peter whispered.

“It was for the best. You are not ready for being a parent.” Peter’s head snapped up.

“And who are you to decide that?” he growled. “Shitty people become parents all the time, you didn’t even give me a chance to try! But that’s not what I was talking about. How could you give her away to someone who isn’t family? The people who have her, do they know? About the supernatural, about what she is?”

“No.” Stiles chimed in. Talia growled at him. Peter roared back.

“You condemned them, all of them! What will she do if she comes into her powers with no one to guide her?”

“Oh, her mom will come to kill her, she’ll turn into a coyote and spend eight years in the forest as a wild animal while her only surviving family member assumes that she’s dead and that the coyote killed her.” Talia and Peter both stared. Stiles waved a negligent hand. “It was an adjustment, but she’s much better now. Learning how to empathize was a struggle.”

“...What about you? You said that you don’t hate me?”

 

Stiles breathed deep. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to sink into the memories, all of the time spent in Peter’s company over the years. All of the barbs thrown, all of the snark and sass and speaking glances, everything held back, everything that was said, and then…

“I have no right to hate you. Not after everything.” Stiles finally said, opening his eyes. He caught Peter’s gaze, holding steady as he willed the other man to understand all the things he wasn’t saying, just like always.

“What does that mean?” Talia cut in, impatient.

Both Stiles and Peter ignored her, caught in their own desperate world.

“You would never, ever hurt me. Despite everything, you were always there until you weren’t, but even then, that wasn’t your fault.” Stiles voice was urgent. “It was never your fault.”

“I think I see.” Peter swallowed thickly. 

Stiles looked at him, looked through him. He leaned back in resignation, there was something there, but not enough. This was not his Peter, not really. His Peter was broken and bloody and a perfect fit to his own jagged edges. This Peter hadn’t lost anything, yet, might never lose everything. This Peter was young and good looking and whole; he was perfect. Stiles’ couldn’t deal with perfection, not after everything he had seen, everything he had done. Stiles broke eye contact, staring at the floor, heart aching for what could be so easy, and for that reason could never be. Stiles had never done easy.

“...We’ll get you your books so that you can take yourself home.” Talia whispered, slightly afraid of whatever had transpired between her little brother and this man.

“Thank you, Alpha Hale.” Stiles stood, dusting himself off.

The three of them exited the basement, subdued. Talia led Stiles to her office. Peter tore out of the house like an enemy pack was at his heels. Talia considered sending someone after him, but felt that she should just leave him be. She turned back to Stiles to see he was watching the front door with something like despair coloring his features. The emotion was quickly slid away under a veneer of calm when he noticed her attention.

Stiles threw himself into his work, desperate to find a way back home. He stumbled upon a few interesting spells that he snapped pictures of for later perusal, but maintained a steady focus on his task.

 

Peter sprinted through the underbrush, directionless and hurting.  _ Why? Why was he not good enough? _ Was a litany pounding a refrain in his mind to the beat of his breaking heart. He knew, he just knew that there was something between Stiles and him. Well, the other him. And was that it? He wasn’t the him that Stiles had known? He slowed in his frantic run.  _ It makes sense. _ That traitorous voice in his mind whispered.  _ He doesn’t know you, not really, and you don’t know him beyond a few hours. What a pathetic thing, to be pining and miserable about a man whom you’ve only just met. No wonder he refused you. _ Peter shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that were laying siege to his brain.

_ What would it take, to make him love me? _ That’s right. All he needed was a goal. He was Peter Hale, and he always got what he wanted. Peter turned back to the house, determined that he would convince Stiles to stay and be his by the time he had found what he needed to send the other pack home.

 

Peter spent the next few days catering to Stiles’ every need. The Hale pack vacillated between amusement and concern. The McCall pack was firmly suspicious, but they didn’t really have a right to butt in. Stiles didn’t leave Talia’s office except to use the bathroom. Peter brought him all of his meals and forced him to eat. Peter put him on Talia’s couch and tucked him in when he fell asleep while studying. Peter kept him company and acted as a sounding board. Stiles worked, and waited. It took a week and a half before Peter finally broke.

“What will it take?” He cried out, slamming his hands on Talia’s desk and looming over Stiles. Stiles didn’t look up from his book. “What will it take for you to love me? For you to stay?” His voice broke on the last word, tears threatening.

Stiles put a bookmark on the page he was reading and carefully closed the book.

“There’s nothing you can do Peter.” He murmured, eyes achingly honest.

“Bullshit there isn’t!” Peter lunged across the table, grabbing the back of Stiles’ neck and pulling him into a frantic kiss.

Stiles startled, but returned the kiss, gentling it so it was no longer a clacking of teeth, taking some of the desperation out of the equation. He threaded his own fingers through Peter’s short hair, allowing the feeling of having Peter in his arms wash over him. Eventually, he pulled away, looking into Peter’s searching face.

Peter hung his head, shuddering in a suppressed sob.

“Nothing?” He asked pitifully. Stiles pulled his hair in a light tease.

“I wouldn’t say nothing.” He tried for lightness, but his voice was sad. Peter looked up in resignation.

“But not enough. I’m not him.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re you, and that’s all you can be.” Stiles agreed. Peter nodded, and to Stiles’ surprise, when he pulled away he didn’t leave, though he did curl up on the couch as far away from Stiles as he could get. Stiles gave him his space, going back to his search.

It took a few more days, but Stiles finally found a ritual. It was surprisingly simple, but nature likes things to be in a certain order so putting things back where they are supposed to be was always going to be easier than taking them away.

The McCall pack, Stiles, Talia, Peter, and Talia’s interim Emissary Claudia (and wasn’t that a kick in the teeth when Stiles saw her across the clearing) gathered around the Nemeton.

“Alright, I need all of you to keep your hands on the roots of the Nemeton.” Stiles instructed, pointing to the exposed sections of the tree roots.

The McCall pack dutifully grabbed on.

“Alright, hold on tight.” He started chanting, quietly at first, but steadily louder. Stiles began to glow and he threw mountain ash onto the trunk of the tree. The ash glowed and sunk into the trunk of the tree, adding to the magic that was so thick in the air you could almost take a bite out of it. There was a whining sound and then a sucking feeling on his entire body. Stiles turned just in time to see Peter wave goodbye, tears in his eyes. His heart ached, but he sent the werewolf one last smile before everything went black.

 

Stiles woke up in his own bed, tear tracks sparkling in the morning sun. He levered himself upright, finding that he was still in his normal clothes. He felt around in his pocket, nodding to himself, before grabbing up his keys from his bedside table and heading out to his Jeep.

It didn’t take long to find the witch. She had set up shop one town over, making a living as a psychic. Stiles laid in wait for her until she was alone, and knocked her out quickly. Peter would have been proud.

  
  


Maria woke up with a pounding head and an ache in her limbs. She opened her eyes a crack to see a starry sky above her interrupted by the dark canopy of trees….

“Augh!” She cried out. Maria tried to lever herself upright, but she was strapped down to something. Whipping her head around, she was horrified to find herself back in the clearing with the Nemeton of Beacon Hills.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Maria startled, turning towards the voice. Gold eyes stared back at her, emotionless as the forest around them. “I see you were unable to connect to the Nemeton.”

“And you can?” She tried for brave, but her voice warbled horribly. The man gave her a lopsided  smile that contained no mirth.

“The Nemeton and I are old friends.” He chirped. She tried to see what his hands were doing, but couldn’t stretch far enough to see. “It takes a certain type of person to connect with nemeta, especially one as temperamental as this one.” He patted the stump affectionately.

The man stood, circling the stump and pouring… something… on the roots.

“You see,” he continued conversationally “this particular tree has gotten used to a specific diet, and people that can’t provide for it, well, it really doesn’t have much patience anymore. It’s a bit grumpy. But sometimes, just sometimes, it will agree to help with some magic, as long as it gets a cut” he pulled out a silver, runed knife “of the profits.”

A scream stuck in Maria’s throat. The man cut away at her dress, leaving her bare to the night air. Painstakingly, runes were cut into her flesh, done with such precision that she barely felt them until he had moved on to a new section of skin. Soon her entire body was wracked with pain, the scream had been unstuck with the touch of his knife and her voice was shot by the time he was done.

 

Stiles looked over his handiwork with a laser focus. He had one shot at this, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up. He pulled out the handkerchief from his hoodie pocket. He unfolded it carefully, looking at the two twists of dark brown hair he had placed there. One from his Peter, and one from the other Peter who was still alive. He twisted the two twists together into one strand and carefully refolded the handkerchief.

Stiles made his way around the Nemeton to the witch’s head and shoved the handkerchief into her open mouth. He began chanting, circling the Nemeton with measured steps. His chanting gained an echo as the Nemeton began to glow, the witches blood soaking into the trunk. The moon hung high and bright overhead adding to the ethereal light that had taken over the clearing.

Stiles made his way back to the witch's head just as he finished his chant, driving the knife down into her skull, through bone and brain matter and into the stump beyond it. Her breath punched out of her and the light in her eyes died, but the light of magic replaced it. The Nemeton absorbed the witch’s body, feeding on it and granting Stiles’ wish. There was a blinding flash.

When Stiles’ vision cleared, he looked at the Nemeton and let out a loud sob. There, blinking awake on the stump, was Peter, his Peter. Stiles flung himself at the man, raining kisses down on his face. Peter was shocked still for a moment before he started running his hands frantically over Stiles. The two of them absorbed themselves in touching, confirming the other was alive and whole.

“How did you do this?” Peter asked, hushed and awed. Stiles gave him a lovelorn smile.

“It’s a long story, Wolfman.” Peter pulled Stiles so the younger man was fully seated in his lap and nuzzled into his neck.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have all the time in the world.”


End file.
